VenCo(18)

“No, I’m not from McManus. God, I would never . . .” The woman sure didn’t seem very corporate.

So who was this woman? Lucky thought she was too well-dressed to be a Bible thumper, out to save a stranger’s soul, but you never knew. Whatever she was selling, especially if it was salvation, Lucky wasn’t having it. She said, “I’m not interested.”

The woman sat back in her seat, squinting. “But I haven’t even told you what I am offering.”

Lucky also sat back and folded her arms across her chest. “Listen, I don’t know how you know my name—that’s a little creepy—but I do not need Jesus. What I need is an affordable apartment, and unless Jesus has a two-bedroom for under fifteen hundred dollars, he can’t help me, and neither can you.”

They looked at each other in silence for a long moment. And then the woman tipped her head back and laughed. Uproariously. When she was finally able to stop, she took a tissue out of her bag and wiped her eyes. “Oh shit,” she said. “I’ve never been mistaken for a Mormon before. That’s a good one.”

Lucky was not amused. “Seriously, how do you know my name?”

The woman wiped her eyes again, examining the tissue to make sure her mascara was intact. “I know a lot about you, because that’s my job. I research employee prospects for a company based in LA—out of the Massachusetts office. We only recruit the most exceptional people and bring them in to do meaningful work. Work that can pay them the kind of money they need to rent decent apartments.”

Now she had Lucky’s attention.

She opened the flap on her bag and pulled out a slim silver case, clicked the clasp, and extracted a business card.

The card stock was heavy, the print saturated. Lucky read it aloud:

VENCO

The Circle Is the Strongest Shape

Freya Monahan, Recruitment Officer



VenCo. She repeated it under her breath as she flipped the card over to see the woman’s contact info.

“We pursue social equality and balance for our employees and are dedicated to giving them the kind of support they need, especially those who are caretakers of children, dependents, elders . . .” Freya leaned towards her, elbows on the table.

“Okay, I don’t mean to be an asshole here, but you’re making me very nervous. First, you put a purse that I’m pretty sure costs more than my rent on this table, and now you have your jacket touching it.” Lucky moved her tray onto the empty table beside theirs, then used a Wet-Nap to wipe the surface as best she could.

Freya watched her check to make sure the purse was clean. “This is exactly why you need to come work for us, Miss St. James.”

“You’re looking for a janitor?”

Freya smirked. “You’re hilarious. No, we’re looking for women who say what they think and who care. Why should you give a shit whether my bag gets sticky when I interrupted the only break you get from a job you hate?”

Lucky felt a bit sheepish. She wasn’t used to compliments. It had been years since anyone even paid attention to her. So she deflected. “I just don’t want to have to pay for your dry cleaning.”

Freya snapped her fingers in response. “You’re fun.”

Lucky was still confused. “I just don’t understand. Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why me?”

Freya stood up. “Why not you?”

“It’s just—Massachussetts? It seems like a long way to come for a new admin person.”

“Admin?” Freya looked confused for a minute. “Oh! You think this is for the same job you have now?”

Lucky nodded, not knowing what to say.

“Oh Christ, that would be stupid. No, no. We don’t need a secretary. We are looking for a writer to join a boutique female-led publishing house.”

Freya gathered up her purse, and Lucky sat there in silence, too shocked to respond, even though it was all she could think of: A writer? A publishing house?

“Wait . . . how did you know that I write?”

“Well, we read some of your early blog posts. Plus, there was that letter to the editor you penned in the paper, the one calling the book reviewer an amoeba with single-celled taste? Classic.”

“You . . . you found my work? And you read it?”

Freya’s face softened. “I know sometimes you look around and think, ‘I deserve something better, something more.’ Lucky, this is better. This is more. Come to Salem and see what we have to offer you. We’ll put you up while you decide and, of course, pay your expenses. Call me.”

She walked away, leaving Lucky reeling.



When she got home that night, she found Stella sitting on the floor in the living room surrounded by boxes, their contents spilling out onto the hardwood.

“Look what I found at the back of the closet. A whole museum’s worth!” She held up handfuls of random items—lengths of ribbon, bracelets, a small wooden carving of a giraffe.

Lucky sighed. It wasn’t that finding old stuff wasn’t fun, or that it was so much work to clean up after her. It was just that Stella had “found” these old boxes just last month. Her memory was getting progressively worse.

“That’s great, Gram.” She checked the stove and counter for signs of meal prep, found none, and grabbed a frozen lasagna out of the fridge. “What’d you eat today?”